


Promised Land

by saintscully



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Missing Scene, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully
Summary: And then she smiles at him.It’s a warm smile, bright. Her round cheeks glow pink in the chilly evening wind.“I’ll talk him around,” she says, and the smile sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine.-Prompt response toDiscordantWords: "What did Sherlock do after being left behind outside the restaurant in TEH?". This was a long time ago, so they might not even remember, but I do ;)
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 73
Collections: Chelle's Fic Recommendations





	Promised Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscordantWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/gifts).



> The E rating might be overkill, but it's there just in case for physical violence and a teeny description of m/m sex. Thank you to [VeeRebekah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebekahVeeWatson/pseuds/RebekahVeeWatson) for the quick beta. I made some edits post beta, so any mistakes are mine.  
> Come say hi: I am [therealsaintscully on tumblr](https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com) and [saintscully2](https://twitter.com/saintscully2) on Twitter.

And then she smiles at him.

It’s a warm smile, bright. Her round cheeks glow pink in the chilly evening wind.

“I’ll talk him around,” she says, and the smile sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine.

“You will?” He frowns and scans her face. There’s a twinkle in her eyes. It’s so incongruous with the way he feels, with the sensation of the warm droplet of blood dripping down his lips.

One has to wonder why she is so cheerful given that she’d just watched her intended sucker-punch a man twice in two hours, instead of asking her to marry him. Is this how normal people usually react?

“Oh yeah,” she says sweetly, as if holding the answers to every question in the world.

He lowers the napkin and looks at her again, his chest opening up with a warm sense of relief. If this woman is indeed so convinced she’ll be able to talk John Watson around, the situation is not at all as dire as he’d thought. She doesn’t know, doesn’t understand John as well as she thinks she does.

John Watson cannot be _talked around_. John makes his own decisions and walks his own path after much stewing and huffing and raging.

If John ever decides to speak another word to him, it’ll be because he chose to do it, on his own terms, not because he was cleverly talked into it in a session of hushed pillow talk.

“Mary!” John’s voice is cool and tight as he stands next to the cab, waiting for her.

The woman, _this_ woman, smiles brightly one last time as she steps in John’s direction. She leaves behind the scent of a perfume that will, he knows, forever send his gut twisting with memories of meeting John Watson after two long years.

He blots another droplet of blood, not distracted enough to miss the snarling glance John sends his way as the cab passes him by.

Not one to lose face, Sherlock looks back with matched determination.

* * *

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a long, grounding breath. He’d missed this. He’d missed John; missed the way John’s internal turmoil threatened Sherlock without warning. Sherlock had yearned for it. He’ll happily throw himself head-first into the eye of the storm every single day for the rest of his life, their lives.

But not like this.

He’d spent two years in exile, weeping by the rivers of Babylon. John in Baker Street was the promised land.

What is this fool’s paradise he’d found himself in?

* * *

Twenty minutes later Sherlock feels as if a light has turned on in his brain. He scans his surroundings, somewhat surprised—and yet not—to find himself in his current location.

He breathes in, deeply and heavily. Scents of frying oil, vinegar and the saltiness of fish fill his nose, his lungs. There are no tablecloths on the old, rickety tables, no napkins. It’s a no-frills establishment, much like the man who owns it.

He winces with pain as the smoke from another cigarette burns his lips, watching the owner of the chippy from a vantage point that keeps him hidden in plain sight. Lucky, that. Ian stands, speaking amiably to a patron. One of the regulars, it would seem. Sherlock used to be a regular. Sometimes, after a particularly difficult case in the days before a wounded doctor stepped into Barts, or when the call of a seven percent solution would become too strong, he’d walk into the chippy with an enigmatic smile.

It happened rather rarely, but it broadened the mind. A fair alternative. Ian would lock the shop, close the door to the storage room and clear his throat. Then he’d take Sherlock into his warm mouth and slip a finger inside him while staring straight into Sherlock’s soul.

Ian barely ever uttered a word. Never asked any questions. It was a wonderful arrangement.

Would have worked wonders tonight.

Ian’s wearing his wedding band these days. Makes sense, given that his once-estranged wife is standing right next to him behind the counter, patting his back affectionately.

It seems the women are in charge these days.

* * *

“You ‘lright, mate?”

Sherlock stares out the cab window, hoping to ignore the man into silence. He watches as his breath, a white vapour, fogs the back seat window.

“Rough night?” The cabbie tries again. “Looks like you need a doctor.”

Sherlock sighs a suffering sigh at the irony. “I’ll give you an extra fifty if you promise to shut up for the rest of the ride.”

* * *

There’s a reason for all this agony. He knows exactly where to place the blame, and he’s determined to take his revenge.

After all he’s been put through, it’s the least he can do.

* * *

“Wait here,” Sherlock barks at the cabbie as he slams the door violently. “This will only take a minute.”

He pounds on the door once, twice. The stately house is dark and imposing, though knowing the man it houses he doubts he’s asleep.

When the door opens, Sherlock shakes his arm in preparation.

“Sher—”

The punch hits swiftly and accurately, leaving Sherlock surprised by the blazing pain that light up his nerves as his fist meets Mycroft’s jaw. There's a sickening sound of bones cracking; whose bones, he can't be sure.

 _Thank you for the homecoming, brother dear,_ his eyes cast the aching blame for tonight’s embarrassment; for being so unceremoniously sent into a lion’s den.

Mycroft rubs his aching jaw, searching Sherlock’s eyes for an explanation.

Sherlock shakes his bruised fist. The cathartic sensation over avenging his pain never materializes.

"Sherlock!"

Hurting and empty inside, he turns wordlessly back to the cab, leaving his stunned brother behind and the cabbie wide-eyed with shock. “221b Baker Street,” he growls, climbing inside. “Go.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of Leonard Cohen peppered throughout this story. You'll know it when you'll see it.


End file.
